I'm literally trembling with nerve-wracking self-disgust as I write this.
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When I was 10 or so, I remember being left alone on some occasions with my then 2-3 year old sister. My memory of that time is hazy; I don't remember quite clearly at the time how I knew about sexual pleasure/masturbation, but I did. I don't know whether I started masturbating before or after this happened.
But it happened. I remember rubbing against my sister. Not once, repeatedly, maybe 3 or so times. I remember her being asleep during most of the occasions when it happened but I'm also sure that at least once she was conscious while I did it. I don't remember what her reaction was but I know it wasn't extreme or something. I even remember making her hold my penis once.
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It stopped then and I didn't have any memory of it until I was 12 or so. Then, I remembered, and...
I tortured myself every day because of it. I stayed up hours at night agonizing over it. I made up mantras to remind myself what I did and what I deserved because of it. Every time a rape or pedophilia case would come up on TV, I'd feel moral disgust at the offenders but then I'd remember that I'm no different than they are. (I'm not attracted to children; child porn disgusts me. I think I'd kill myself if I really were a pedophile. But that was what I told myself. Over, and over, and over again.)
This is not the only thing I feel guilty for. I remember being attracted towards my aunts for a brief period after those years. I remember experimenting with objects sexually. But this is the main driving force of so much.
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A year ago, I told my best friend of four years what I did. He, at first, thought I was probably dreaming. I told him I couldn't take the cowardly risk of assuming it was so. He didn't react that much; he said I should just forget about it and that it was a childhood thing I did and have no control over. I also told the girl I was romantically interested in at one time, and she dismissed it as "no big deal," excusing me on account that I was a child.
I told the school therapist (who I trusted surprisingly fast) about it. I broke down when I told him. I started rocking back and forth. He somewhat egged me on to remember more graphic details. I did. I remember feeling like crap for the rest of the day. But I was also somewhat relieved.
In a later meeting, he told me that this was surely at the cause of my immense self-hatred, my crippling inner lack of self-confidence (in spite of "clear and apparent talent," he said that just to make me feel better, most likely), my Jonah complex, and many other issues I had. He suggested that this might be why I was a daydreamer, why I was a thinker (or so he described; I in no manner consider myself sufficiently intelligent or creative to be a "thinker")- I wanted to escape from the memory of what I did.
He only briefly said this, but this devastated me. So this is the reason why I love ethics? Is this the reason why my conscience is so powerful, powerful enough to make me feel moral repulsion when I or someone else commit the slightest moral wrong? Is this why I'm extremely interested in religion, psychology (obviously cognitive and especially Freudian and Jungian), and philosophy? I expanded and probably exaggerated his suggestion, but still.
(This doesn't affect my persona. I am good at wearing masks.)
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I no longer want to see redemption flicker then die out. I want a clear and definitive answer both from myself and from others. University starts in a few months; I want it settled down before then. I cannot work on myself should it not be settled. And it is: is redemption possible? Can I forgive myself; would others accept me should I tell them of this? I cannot appeal to some unknown god in the skies; I believe in none. My counselor said that my telling of this is redemption enough. But...
I am sick and tired of this.
Addendum:
I can't go to therapy for at least several months; I'm still in school and my parents would have an issue with it. The therapist (who is unfortunately no longer working at my school) told me that my sister remembers nothing of it, that it didn't affect her at all, and that I shouldn't tell her or my (conservative, Middle-Eastern) family. But... I feel dishonest. I feel dishonest when I think about how people don't really know the act of utter evil that I did, that their entire image of me would change once they do.